


Warp and Weft

by athena_crikey



Category: Endeavour (TV)
Genre: Fantasy AU, Gen, Magical Realism, Morse worships the alter of logic, case-fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-10
Updated: 2016-09-30
Packaged: 2018-06-07 12:56:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 16,029
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6805585
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/athena_crikey/pseuds/athena_crikey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes, clairvoyance isn't enough to predict the presence of evil. Sometimes, shadows aren't strong enough to stop it. Fantasy AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Starving Tom

**Author's Note:**

> Apparently Endeavour Hiatus = Fantasy AU? I don't have a definitive plan laid out for this one, so I'm just rolling with the punches and hoping for the best.

It was pouring. Rain sluiced down in cords, the dark clouds above lying full and heavy as sodden canvas over the city. 

It soaked into the black cloaks of the three men standing huddled on the tenement’s doorstep, the long woollen garments soaked and weighted with it. Like an unkindness of ravens they waited, caucusing. Fred Thursday, Peter Jakes, and Pagan Morse. Cowley Keep’s first shift of Spellbinders. 

“I don’t hear anything.” Jakes had his upraised hand pressed to the door of the tenement, fingers splayed as raindrops dribbled down over his skin. His nails were turning blue; it was only March and winter’s teeth were dug deep into spring. The lining of his cloak was coal black, silk smooth and fine so that the edges seemed to blend into the dark shadows in the corners of the doorway. Only the chain above his breast caught the light, well-polished silver glinting even in the grey day. 

“He’s in there,” said Morse, voice low and flinty. Under his plain, pilling cloak his shoulders were rounded against the damp, his pale face stark and bony; he looked like a young crow, gangling and awkward. No hint of silver caught the light anywhere about him; his clothes had a faded, hand-me-down look. 

Jakes turned to glance at him, his eyes dark and rivulets of water running down from his sleek hair. “What makes you so sure? Guessing again? You’ve no Sight, and sooner or later –”

“Jakes,” interrupted Thursday. Jakes’ sharp face went blank, but he turned to the door and twisted his hand. Inside the aged wood, the metal lock slid open. He pushed the door inwards, revealing a silent, darkened foyer. 

“Find him,” growled Thursday, stepping inside. Jakes faded into the shadows, the black of his cloak becoming one with them until there was only darkness left. Morse followed Thursday inside, shutting the door behind him and revealing the threadbare primrose silk lining of his cloak, pale as a winter morning, some thin patches showing the black of the wool beneath. 

The foyer’s floor was patterned with dull black and white tiles, some of them cracked. Beyond stretched a long hall leading to the back of the building, and a wooden stairway leading upwards. The air smelled of cold must – dead, empty air. There were no lights in the house, nor heat. Thursday glanced upwards, and Morse nodded once. 

They mounted the stairs, Morse pulling a hand through his damp hair and shaking out the water, Thursday sweeping up with hands fisted beneath dark wool. At the top of the stairs they found a long hallway mirroring the one downstairs, wooden floorboards uneven and stained by age and wear. The house felt like a mausoleum, lifeless and silent, long since abandoned and forgotten. There were no paintings or decorations on the walls, just darkened rectangles on the faded paint showing where long ago they had hung. 

Jakes appeared from a pool of shadow in front of them and pointed at a closed doorway. 

Thursday nodded, and Jakes threw open the door, the three men piling into the room beyond. Sitting still and silent in the centre of the floor was the wasted remains of what had once been Paul Brooks, a healthy young student a Balliol. His muscle and fat had burned away to leave behind limp, sunken skin and bones. His mouth was open, saliva dribbling within from crooked teeth. Wide, staring eyes rolled up at them, a pink tongue sliding out to lick cracked lips. Morse took a step backwards, horror flashing on his face.

Galvanized by the movement, on the floor Brook’s withered husk contorted, long bony fingers grasping, hungry mouth widening as he stumbled up towards Morse. 

Jakes slipped behind him, silent as an owl, and laid an ice-tipped hand on his shoulder. The creeping frost spread from his fingers to Brooks, burrowing down into his bloodstream towards his heart. Brooks groaned, grimaced, and then dropped. He landed in a heap of dirty and torn clothes, and lay still. Another Wasted Soul ended.

“Well done,” said Thursday, looking down at the heap before them with a critical eye. “Morse, call it in. Jakes, best make sure of him.”

Morse disappeared out into the hall while Jakes knelt, reaching out a careful hand to find Brook’s shoulder stiff. “Froze him solid, sir.”

Thursday nodded, mouth thin. “Good.”

  
***

“I understand I’ve you to thank for my latest visitor.” Maximillian DeBryn, the Keep’s necromancer, looked over the chilled corpse that had once been Brooks. It lay on a metal table in the centre of the deadroom in the basement of the Radcliffe Infirmary, the air still and cold as mist. Morse, arms tightly crossed and neck craned to look out the windows set deep in the thick stone walls, didn’t turn his head.

“It was Jakes who set the frost,” he said, flatly.

“And you who found him. Or am I wrong?” There was a pause; Morse didn’t object. DeBryn continued, voice still with a wry bent. “That’s three you’ve turned up now. People will be talking.”

Morse scowled. “The only talking they need bother with is why he’s striking so often. Three in two weeks is unheard of. So far his victims have been students of his ways, his patterns. Soon he will turn to us, his hunters. And once he has a taste for Spellbinders there may be no stopping him. We need to find him.”

DeBryn tapped a wasted arm with a long metal probe. “I’m afraid, Morse, that even I can’t make this one speak. Wasted Souls are no longer men; Brooks’ humanity is too far gone. As for Starving Tom…” He put down the probe and turned, crossing his arms over his butcher’s apron. “You had best watch yourself. If once he has you in his sights…” DeBryn’s eyes dropped to the wasted corpse in front of him. 

“If you discover anything of note, send for me,” said Morse, ignoring his statement. His boots echoed on the stone floor as he crossed the room and left by the heavy iron-reinforced door.

  
***

The fireplace was the heart of what had once been the Keep’s guard room, long since taken over by the Spellbinders; its massive soot-darkened bulk took up five feet of the inner wall. There was always a fire burning in it. A pair of battered old sawhorses served as drying racks for rain-soaked cloaks, currently buried in a heap of black steaming wool. The small stone room smelled of it – the fresh scent of burning pine mingled with the heavy smell of wet cloth.

As Morse entered with his dripping cloak over his arm, the flickering firelight painted his cheap suit in a harlequin pattern. Jakes saw him first, and from across the room caught his eye. The shadow-weaver was sitting at the his desk, smoking a thin cigarette. Morse hung his cloak over the sawhorse, then crossed the uneven floor in the direction of the corner allotted to Jakes and himself. 

“Almost blew it that time,” Jakes said, letting out a breath of smoke. “Couple more feet and you would have been elevenses.”

Morse frowned silently, heading for his own desk.

“The old man wants to see you,” interrupted Jakes, a smug smile playing at his lips. Morse gave him an unimpressed look but stopped, redirected himself, and headed for Thursday’s private room. 

The door was open and Thursday nodded to him when he paused beneath the lintel. Morse stepped into the darkened room where rain was lashing against the lead-framed windowpanes. The glass was old and weepy, full of rivers and waves even on dry days that obscured the view of the large yard and wooden stables where the cars were kept indoors out of the weather. Gas lamps burned here and there, their soft light casting long shadows in the corners. 

“How did you know, then? Where to find Paul Brooks,” said Thursday, seated in the heavy leather armchair behind his writing desk. Morse stood, his back to the door. There was no fire in the grate here, the room cool compared to the warm fug next door. By now the others would be making tea over the open flames, hot and sweet. Morse stiffened against a sudden pang of thirst.

“Wasted Souls don’t lose themselves, sir, not until very late. They leave clues behind, ties to their old lives.”

“Yes, agreed Thursday, “but making sense of them –”

“It was easy,” broke in Morse, with more honesty than tact. “The library book showed he was at Balliol, the newspaper clipping that he was a rower – or interested in it. The fact that the two people he spared wore crucifixes spoke to a religious upbringing. There aren’t so many Catholic rowers at Balliol. Sir.”

“And you didn’t think to ask Chard?” 

Morse took a slow, gentle step to the side, weight shifting as he considered. “I don’t think that our actions should be whole governed by information provided by the Other Side. Or however much of it is filtered through to us,” he added, more candidly. Thursday looked at him steadily. 

“You’ll want to watch those kind of allegations, lad,” he said, mildly.

“I’m not alleging anything, sir. I just… I don’t like being tied down to prophesy and clairvoyance. Not when we can do the job just as well ourselves.”

Thursday’s lips twitched towards a smile. “Can we? We’ve no trace on Starving Tom. He’s our true objective; the Wasted Souls he’s leaving in his wake are just distractions.”

Morse’s eyes hardened. “He’s never appeared with an agenda, sir. He just takes until he’s stopped.” He tensed against a shiver. 

“And until he is, he destroys every soul whose attention catches him. We need more information; we need to find him. Find him and freeze whatever passes for life from him.”

“One of my old tutors had done some work on the uncanny, sir. I can speak to him, find out if he knows anything that might help us. At least, until my attention is drawn away again…” he trailed off, voice tired. There had been too much death already, too many innocent young lives twisted and ruined. 

“Do what you can for now; if we’re lucky he won’t strike again before the week’s end.” Thursday pulled out his pipe and tobacco pouch. “You’ve done well so far on this, Morse. Try not to let it get to you.” He lit the pipe with a match, waving the flame out and placing it in an ashtray. 

“Easier said than done,” replied Morse, with an empty smile. He turned and stepped out of the room, running a hand over his drawn face as he left.

  
***

Professor Turnbridge was a kindly old man whose youth had been spent on the Indian continent, studying the uncanny from remote villages. He had come back to England in his old age, much scarred and weakened by fevers, but with his intellect undamaged. Oxford had snapped him up and he had settled into a comfortable position teaching young minds of the darkness that lay in wait for them.

Morse hurried from the cab to the gabled entrance to his home as the rain pattered down onto his shoulders; his cloak was still drying out in front of the Keep’s fire from its earlier soaking. 

Turnbridge welcomed Morse with a warm handshake, inviting him into his small but immaculate home. It was surrounded by a flourishing garden, almost as large as the house itself and much more interesting. From the windows Morse watched the slowly lifting rain patter down on a sea of azaleas, their bright flaming colours undiminished by the day’s grey hue. 

“Starving Tom, you said?” asked Turnbridge, seating himself in a high-backed chair. Morse took a seat in the bay window on a wide cushion decorated with stripes of white and spring green. 

“That’s right, sir. There have been three deaths – Wasted Souls – in the past two weeks. He’s targeting those who seek to learn about him, we think. Two of the deaths have been Oxford students of the uncanny – none from your college – the third a local scryer. We will be issuing a warning note to the university this afternoon.”

“That will cause some excitement,” said Turnbridge, lightly. “As for Starving Tom, he’s not easily found. I doubt your clairvoyants will be able to track him. He’s a darkness, an influence, not flesh and bones. At least, the body he inhabits is, but to kill it is only to send him back to the Other Side for some period of time. He always returns.”

“So far we’ve not been able to determine who it is he’s possessing. Until we do, we may not be able to find him. Is there any pattern to the people he takes, anything that might lead us to find his vessel?”

“I think I should ask first if you’re _ready_ to find him. Dealing with Wasted Souls is one thing. Starving Tom is another entirely. From what I know, you Spellbinders mostly excel in the shadow-weaving. They won’t do much good against him, he is shadow at his core.”

“I believe we can stop him, sir. We have more than just shadow-weavers.”

Turnbridge canted his head. “Confident words,” he said, a smile licking at his lips. His eyes wandered from Morse to the window behind him, and his smile turned suddenly to a frown.

Morse turned to look and saw that the azalea bushes were withered, once-bright flowers limp and brown. He stood, backing away. 

“What does it mean?”

“Step away, now!” 

Outside the window the sky darkened suddenly, rain beating like arrows against the glass. A wild, rough-edged shadow danced over the window, two burning red points in its centre. Morse scrambled back; behind him Turnbridge shouted. “Don’t let it see your face! Don’t –”

The glass smashed, water sluicing in. The air grew suddenly hot and fetid, so heavy with condensation that sweat dripped on Morse’s skin as he gasped for breath. There was a sick smell of roasting flesh, of melting hair and bone. Behind him Turnbridge was chanting; Morse stumbled back and fell over a table, elbows banging painfully against the wooden floor. He threw a hand over his face but knew it was too late, far too late. The image of the red, terrible eyes bored into him, eating away at his mind like rats at a festering mess. Morse groaned, feeling faint; he tried to draw his power up but couldn’t grasp it, couldn’t find it within himself. 

There was a low whispering, the susurrus of voices echoing in a marble vault, and a cool wind wrapped itself around him. A shadowed veil floated over his eyes and stayed, casting the world in tones of monochrome grey. Morse felt himself rolled up by the web as though in a rug, unable to move or cry out, barely able to breathe. The shadow held him, still as stone, in a relentless grip.

He watched through darkened vision as the hulking, rotten creature stalked into the room, passing so close to him Morse could almost hear its flesh festering. 

It reached out for Turnbridge and a bolt of lightning fell. Starving Tom gave a shrieking wail as the bright light burned through the room, turning the world white. A breath of wind blew through the cramped space, taking with it the tropical heat and the vile smell and leaving behind the clean scent of ozone.

When Morse finally prised his eyes open he found the room empty of both creature and don. He tried to lever his arm away from his side and found himself still caught by the shadow web. He was beginning to feel faint from the lack of air, unable to take full breaths. 

He was trapped.


	2. The Fire

It was Thursday and Jakes who answered the reports of howling winds and lightning in the high-brow neighbourhood north of the university. They arrived not long after the rain stopped, daylight still struggling to slip through thick clouds. 

What had been a homely cottage built from stones the speckled grey of swallow eggs and covered on the warm southern side with honeysuckle now stood dark and silent. The front garden, a stretch of grass with a strip for plantings of small shrubs and perennials pressed up against the house, was dead or dying. A path of destruction had been burned from the pavement to the front window, grass withered and shrubs brown and desiccated. The window above the garden had shattered, glass lying both inside and out, the scattered fragments reflecting the grey clouds above. They were covered with droplets of water; whatever had happened had occurred before the rain had ceased.

Through the broken window was visible what had been a pleasant sitting room, a green and white cushioned seat in the window soaking and covered with shards of glass. Thursday surveyed the exposed room – at the back it was mostly untouched, while the front was chaotic and sopping. 

Thursday turned to Jakes, coming up behind him from the slumbering Jaguar. “Check around back; it may have left that way.”

Jakes nodded and slipped around the corner of the house, slipping silent as a wraith through the grass. 

Inside the house was warm and comfortable. It was a pleasant English country home, all pale patterned wall-paper and matching furniture – nice delicate Hepplewhite. The walls were covered in paintings and lithographs of scenes from the sub-continent, and a tall glass cabinet in the study was packed full of curios. The rooms were small but with simple clean lines that made them cozy without being cluttered. 

Of the owner or Starving Tom, there was no sign. 

Thursday was upstairs checking the bedrooms when Jakes called, voice strangled and gruff with surprise. Thursday came hurriedly down the stairs, pushing his spare cloak from his shoulders; a flair of crimson silk sliced bright as a blade in the dark stairway. 

In the empty front room he found Jakes kneeling on the floor in the space between a sofa and a drinks cabinet, near to the window. Jakes glanced up at him, then back down. He spread his hands over thin air, closing them as if catching hold of something. Then, as though tearing through taffeta, he ripped apart an invisible cloak. A shadow web. Wrapped up in it like a trapped fly and staring up with wide desperate eyes was Morse.

As soon as Jakes had torn the web from him he rolled onto his side, gasping for breath. “Too tight,” he choked out, breath coming and going with a hollow rushing noise. “He wove it too tight.”

“Who?” demanded Thursday, dropping to one knee beside him. 

“Turnbridge. My old tutor.” He unfolded himself, reaching up to loosen his cravat. He pulled himself up with the gradual but inevitable motion of a clock hand to sit with his back resting against the sofa’s arm. 

“He’s no hand at it,” commented Jakes, picking invisible threads from his fingers. “It’s far too dense – gone all soggy,” he said, reprovingly. 

Morse rubbed at his face, drawing long lines across his forehead with forefinger and thumb. “Shadow-weaving was never his line,” he said, tiredly. He looked fragile and hollow as an empty cocoon, exhausted by what he had witnessed. 

“A man shouldn’t have more than one,” said Thursday, sharply, watching Morse’s face hawkishly. 

Morse rested his arms on his knee, drawing his limbs up in close to him like the inward curl of heated steel wool. He was staring at the carpeted floor. “He doesn’t. He specialised in warding. I never knew he could weave at all; he must have picked it up on the side. He always was cagey, even when I knew him. Lived too long on the edge of civilization, perhaps.”

“Do you know where he is?” asked Thursday. Morse looked up slowly at him, eyes wide and empty. 

“No,” he said, voice barnacle-rough. “It… I… _he_ was here. Starving Tom.” He shuddered, face white and hands grasping at the fabric of his suit. Thursday undid the catch of his cloak and slipped it off, draped it over Morse in a whirl of scarlet silk. The shock on his face at his gesture only deepened Thursday’s frown. 

“How did he leave?” asked Jakes.

Morse shook his head, chin now tucked inside the cloak’s broad collar. “I don’t know. Turnbridge did something… called down lightning. When it was gone they had both disappeared.”

“Did he touch you?” asked Thursday at last. Morse looked up, slow as moonrise, to meet his eyes. 

“No – no. Turnbridge used the web to hide me from him. If he hadn’t…” He started shaking, hands tightening on the edges of Thursday’s cloak. He clearly couldn’t stop it, not even by stiffening up like a scarecrow, all over-loose clothes and angles. 

Thursday reached out, rested a heavy hand on his shoulder. “Alright. That’s enough. Jakes, take him outside.” 

“I’m fine,” muttered Morse, getting to his feet on his own. He walked like an old man, though, twisted and hunched as an banyan tree, still with Thursday’ cloak around his shoulders. Jakes followed him out.

Thursday took a last look through the empty sitting room. There was no sign of Turnbridge, nor of whatever it was he had done to drive off Starving Tom. But if the creature had set its sights on either him or Morse, it would find them come hell or high water. And after that…

Thursday shook his head, and followed his subordinates outside.

  
***

The Jaguar was long and sleek, all sinewy curves and flint-black lines. It shone proudly in the grey day, unphased by the wet streets or the promise of further rain. As soon as Morse laid his hand on the back door the engine began a low throaty purr. Inside was pleasantly warm as always; Morse sank back against the blood-red cushions and closed his eyes.

The Jaguar always gave off an impression of ferocious power perfectly harnessed, a limitless capacity to run – to the ends of the Earth if asked. It didn’t have the steady tireless strength of the cart-horse at the heart of lorries, or the springy instant speed of little roadsters’ antelopes. But over distance it roared ahead of the competitors and ran like the blazes until its heart gave out – and Morse loved it for that.

The engine’s purring shifted to an anticipatory revving and Morse opened his eyes just as Jakes opened the front door and slid in behind the passenger seat. He brought with him a scent of cigarette smoke and old leaves and cellars at midnight; the scent of shadow. 

“What was he like, then?” asked Jakes, turning to face Morse. “Starving Tom.”

Morse shook his head, eyes wide with bands of white encircling the irises. “Don’t ask.”

“Was he really –” the passenger door opened and Jakes broke off, swivelling around. “Hello, sir.”

Thursday slipped into the passenger seat. Jakes took the wheel and let out the clutch. The Jaguar pulled away from the kerb with effortless grace.

“What now, sir?” asked Jakes. Thursday’s eyes flickered to Morse in the rear-view mirror.

“Now,” said Thursday in a deep tone, “We talk to Mr Bright.”

  
***

Reginalt Bright was an old dragon, although his age and diminutive stature had some time ago earned him the moniker Toothless. He had been young in an age when fire had been the popular choice for keen weavers sent off to colonial postings, all splendor and majesty. He wore his Grandmaster’s uniform with pride, orange epaulettes as startling a contrast to the black serge as flames licking over coal.

“Starving Tom?” he demanded shrilly, eyes flashing from Thursday to Morse behind thick spectacles. “And he _saw_ you?” His thin, lined face was the colour of oatmeal, untouched by his current indignation.

“Yes, sir,” replied Morse flatly. He was now in just his ill-fitting suit, Thursday’s cloak returned to its peg. He looked high-strung and impatient, shifting his weight like a skittish horse. 

“You _think_? Why did you not _act_? Now the menace is still loose, very possibly with your scent in its nose.”

“Or that of Professor Turnbridge,” pointed out Morse, with a hint of acid in his tone. Thursday frowned repressively at him.

“And where is this Professor Turnbridge?” demanded Bright, all sound and fury. 

“Jakes is getting his particulars to the Watchers,” provided Thursday mildly.

“Well hopefully Master Chard and his men will turn up more than you’ve been able to.”

Morse blinked, with the keenness of a birddog retrieving its prey. “One thing Turnbridge did say, sir – those caught up by Starving Tom are rarely easily found by those with Sight. But I’m sure they’ll do their best,” he added hurriedly on seeing Bright’s frosty glare. 

“They certainly will,” declared Bright, tone thin. “That will be all. Thursday, a moment.”

Morse stepped out, leaving the two masters closeted together. He closed the heavy door behind him and pausing to run a hand through his hair. It was shaking, fingernails blue.

He moved quietly through the narrow stone corridors, gas lamps here and there glowing warmly in the dimness. The tall rooms and thick stone slabs gave the Keep a forbidding air, a sense of age and meanness. Morse’s footsteps echoed in the distance, disappearing into the darkness.

  
***

“You bring it on yourself,” Jakes told him when he made it back to his chair and sank down onto the unforgiving wood. Morse rested his elbows on the table and dropped his white face into his hands.

“How’s that?” he asked, voice muffled. His back was a dark sickle in the flickering firelight, his worn shirt the soft grey of cigarette ash. “Because I didn’t bring Starving Tom back trussed up like a pig?”

“Don’t be thick. No one expects the impossible, especially not from apprentices. They expect you to behave like you’ve a brain between your ears. We’re not the constabulary, we don’t interview suspects and solve crimes. We mop up after the uncanny.”

Morse looked up; his skin had a sickly grey tint to it. “They’re not mutually exclusive,” he answered.

“And that’s your problem right there,” diagnosed Jakes, kicking back in his chair and lighting a cigarette. “They are to the rest of us, Pagan.”

  
***

Thursday returned not long after and called Morse into his office. There was a full scuttle of coal by the fireplace, and he built up a tidy heap of in the grate on top of a few scraps of kindling and paper and set it ablaze. “You look as though you could use it,” he said, glancing up at Morse’s narrow, shadowed face. There was still a hollow look to him, a fear that hadn’t yet abated no matter how well-buried it was.

“Mr Bright has your best interests at heart,” he said, rising. Behind him the heat of the fire began to slowly leech into the cold room.

“His own interests, more like,” said Morse sourly, standing with his arms crossed, staring into the fire.

“Morse…” Thursday shook his head. “I think you’d better sleep here tonight. Sofa’s comfortable enough, and there’s plenty coal.”

“And McNutt and the second shift will be right outside?” finished Morse, wryly. 

Thursday shrugged. “And that. I don’t want you alone, not for the next day or two. If he’s going to come, he’ll do it by then.”

The starkness of Morse’s pale face against the dark stone walls was striking, like a lone birch standing thin and bare against a November storm. 

“I know,” he said quietly, voice scratching at the bottom of his range. “And if he does –”

Thursday looked into his eyes, voice reassuring and absolute. “You won’t be alone this time.”

“I won’t _fail_ this time,” retorted Morse, his eyes flashing. 

“There’s no shame in falling back in the face of horrendous evil. Battle-hardened men have done the same. Don’t play the “if” game – it’s no use to any bugger.” Thursday sighed, glancing out the windows. It was dark already, grey day spilled seamlessly into night. “Don’t worry about running me home. Jakes can do that. Unless you’d rather I stayed?”

Morse flushed, a mixture of embarrassment and indignation. “No, sir. I’ll be fine. Really.”

Thursday gave him a tired smile. “’Course you will.”

  
***

The sofa was an old horsehair monstrosity, covered in damask that had long since faded and roughened with wear. It sat along the side wall, kitty corner to the fireplace.

Morse stoked up the fire, unfolded his now-dry cloak and curled up on the sofa in his shirtsleeves, jacket and shoes set on the floor beside him. 

With the gas lamps off and the door closed, there was only the burning red light of the fire in the room. Morse stared into it, head resting on his arm, unable to look away. Slowly the room became nothing but red and black, burning eyes and rotting, shadowy limbs. And still he stared, watching, as the fire became Starving Tom and Starving Tom became the fire. He lay, paralysed, unable to break away, to shift or moan or beg for release. 

It was a nightmare, a brain fever, a temporary madness which would not pass. He stayed curled under his cloak, sweating as if he were under the summer sun, fire burning hideous patterns into his eyes. He was panting for breath but his lungs seemed empty of air, starving his body of oxygen. The room smelled of smoke, of burning, of heat and destruction. There was no release, no escape, no sanctuary from the horror of it, and his heart pounded in his breast like a bird’s until he thought it would burst. 

And still the flickering red light seared into him. 

It was only when, hours later, the fire finally burned out that he fell into a sick, restless sleep.


	3. The New Day

Dawn poured in through the rippled glass, slow and thick as honey. It painted the ancient rug in tones of gold and cinnamon, and the stone walls a cool dove grey. It crept over the sofa, playing over the coy strip of primrose showing beneath the dark cloak, and picking out a mixture of harvest gold and autumnal red in Morse’s hair. Even in its warm light, his face remained stubbornly grey, twisted tight with weariness and anxiousness even in sleep. 

He didn’t wake when Thursday came in, swinging his cloak off his shoulders with a crimson flash like the darting of a snake’s tongue. The master grew still when he saw the sleeping man, then stepped carefully over. “Morse?” And then, louder, leaning over him, “Morse?”

Morse stirred, shoulders rising and falling as he sighed into wakefulness. An instant later he was jerking himself up, eyes snapping wide, cloak sliding down to pool in his lap. 

Thursday stepped back. “It’s just me,” he said gently as Morse stared up at him, hands half-raised for a fight. “Morse?” he continued, when his apprentice didn’t lower his hands.

Morse blinked, then folded back down onto the sofa. His feet were tangled in his cloak, his shirt crooked and wrinkled. His eyes had the dull, worn look of a sea-glass and his face was creased, shadows filling the hollows of his eye sockets and the underside of his cheekbones. 

“You look cheery,” said Thursday gruffly. And then: “How much sleep did you get? An hour? Two?”

Morse drew a hand over his face; when it had passed by he looked no less grey and worn than before. “Don’t know. I had terrible dreams. If they were dreams; they seemed… more.” He looked towards the fireplace’s cold grate, hands clenching. 

Thursday’s face darkened. “Up you get.”

Morse looked back to him, brows furrowing. “Sir?”

“Let’s get something warm in your belly. Then I’m taking you to see DeBryn.”

  
***

The necromancer dabbled too in the art of the apothecary, drawing wisdom from the dead being heavily circumscribed by the law and therefore not very profitable. His lair was down the winding stone hall from the dead room: a wide low-ceilinged room that always smelled of sweetgrass and the sharp scent of dandelions. He had an open grate in the centre of a u-shaped bench with an iron cauldron suspended above by a chain, and from a metal grill affixed to the ceiling hung a wealth of fresh and dry herbs, roots, flowers and leaves. The glass in the narrow windows had long-since been tinted dark by the noxious potions he brewed up; although all of them opened to the outside he rarely let in fresh air.

“Looking a bit peaky, aren’t you?” he greeted Morse as Thursday ushered him in. Morse’s nose twitched at the smell. “Come have a seat.” 

Morse stood instead, arms crossed under his cloak. 

“We’ve come in your other line,” said Thursday, speaking for his mute apprentice. DeBryn’s face darkened.

“There’s not been another one so soon, surely?” he asked, tilting his spectacles to better see them. 

“No. But Morse caught sight of the creature yesterday. He’s been off-colour since.”

DeBryn’s mouth twisted in a considering frown. “And you want to know if there’s a malign influence on him,” he finished, without looking to Thursday for confirmation. “Simple enough, really, although you ought to’ve brought him in yesterday.”

“I’m not a _thing_ to be shuttled back and forth,” broke in Morse, irritably. 

DeBryn raised an eyebrow. “You _seem_ enough like yourself. Sit down there.” He indicated a stool, which after a moment of glowering Morse lowered himself onto. DeBryn pulled a second stool opposite him, seated himself and held out his hands, palm up. “Put your hands on mine; lightly will do.”

Morse slowly extended his long, pale hands and rested his palms against DeBryn’s. “Well, you’ve poor circulation,” he said, and then closed his eyes. “Are your hands naturally cold?”

“No,” admitted Morse slowly, watching him. 

“There’s a shadow,” said DeBryn eventually, wrinkles converging on his brow. “But not of death. It’s a lingering darkness, the presence of evil – it’s all about you like a veil.” He opened his eyes and pulled his hands away. “It will fade in time, if you’ve the sense to do as I told you yesterday and stay away from Starving Tom. Failing that…” He stood, hooking down several bundles of herbs and dried flowers and pulling out crackling wands of pleasant-smelling greenery. These he wove skillfully together into a doubled circle, tying them off at the top with a piece of hemp and making a long loop from it. “This will keep it at bay. I don’t have the power to dispel it – only time or your own heart can do that – but as long as you wear this you won’t be bothered by it.”

Morse took the little circle, no larger than a shilling, and slipped the string of hemp over his head so that it hung above his breastbone. Like a flowering opening to the morning sun he slowly straightened, anxiety and tension fading from his face. “Thank you,” he said, holding it cupped in his hand. 

DeBryn cocked his head to the side, bird-like. “My pleasure, I’m sure.”

  
***

“I want to go back to Turnbridge’s,” announced Morse as they left the Infirmary. He lay his palm on the Jaguar’s smooth side and the lock slid open, accompanied by a low purring.

“Do you.” Thursday slid into the passenger seat, soft brown eyes on his apprentice. Morse’s proper colour had returned and he sat straight-backed behind the wheel. “And what do you expect to find?”

Morse shook his head. “I don’t know, sir. But he can’t just have disappeared without a trace. There must be _something_.”

“And the Watchers?” asked Thursday, a little wryly. 

“We can check with them when we return,” allowed Morse, bright eyes resting on Thursday with a greyhound’s eagerness for the bell.

Thursday sighed. “Very well. But no more than half an hour, mind.”

Morse laid his hands on the wheel, and the Jaguar roared to life. “No, sir,” he replied, a little smile flitting across his lips.

  
***

The large front window of Turnbridge’s cottage had been boarded up, presumably by the local constables. It stood out amid the house’s otherwise well-kept exterior like a rotten tooth.

Morse opened the lock with a twist of his hand, a flare of candle-light shining in the keyhole, brief as a falling star. He opened the door and stood on the stoop for a moment before stepping in.

The narrow hallway itself was in darkness, but daylight was pouring in from open doorways and peeking down from the top of the staircase. The house smelled of dampness and the sickly-sweet odor of wilting flowers. Morse walked in slowly, eyes darting along the lines of the walls and the angle of the stairs. 

Behind him Thursday’s heavier footstep followed. “You go up,” said the master at his back; Morse nodded, placing one hand tentatively on the bannister and slowly ascending, boots silent on the carpet. 

The upstairs was divided into two bedrooms and a toilet. All was kept neatly, the guest room a sparse but pleasant room with a southern-facing window and a strip of dusty sunshine lying over the bed’s blue and white counterpane. 

The master bedroom held more personality; there were framed photographs here, their sepia tones softening the images of foreign lands and unfamiliar fashion and landscapes. Morse looked through them all carefully, images of Turnbridge with various individuals and groups, in front of a wide river, beside a dead tiger. There was nothing unusual to them. 

The large dark wardrobe had a vague smell of mothballs; inside Turnbridge’s clothes were all in order, and in the bathroom nothing seemed to be missing. There were no apparent empty places on top of desks or shelves where anything had been taken. If he left under his own power, he had done it with only the clothes on his back. Climbing roses covered the back fence, their faces turned to the sun. There was no back gate.

Morse stepped around the bed to look out the window into the back garden; it was a small square plot of land, mostly grass with a large peach tree in the centre. He could see the peaches nestled beneath green leaves, plump little promises waiting for August. 

Morse returned downstairs and found Thursday in the kitchen at the back of the house, glancing through a pile of letters. A vase of roses cut from the garden was standing on the table; they were wilting, their petals giving off a sickly sweet scent. “Well?” he asked, glancing up from Turnbridge’s correspondence. 

Morse shook his head. “There’s nothing. No sign of his having taken anything; even his toothbrush and clothes are untouched.”

Thursday turned to look out into the sun-dappled garden, trying the back door as he did so; locked. “I suppose if you thought Starving Tom was after you, you would travel lightly,” he mused, back to Morse. “By the way,” he added, in a more straight-forward tone, “You never mentioned having studied – what was it, warding?”

Morse blinked, saw his own reflection in the glass gawking at him and straightened his face. “I didn’t. He also taught a class on Edwardian poetry.”

Thursday turned, smiling. “And that was more your line?” He stepped away from the door. “You’re a puzzle if nothing else. What made you give it up? The poetry.”

Morse shrugged. “There’s little future for a failed Greats student. And in any case I was never at academic at heart,” he admitted, more slowly. “Two years with the Army showed there was a world beyond the ivory tower. One where perhaps I could do more good.”

“I think so,” said Thursday. He sighed, taking up Turnbridge’s letters and returning them to their place on the corner of the counter. “I suppose it’s back to the nick for us.”

  
***

In fact, it wasn’t. A young man in a constable’s uniform was just tumbling off a bicycle as they emerged from the cottage, breathing hard. He was tall and heavy-set, with a plain face that was currently flushed from exertion. “Constable Strange, sir,” he said, breathing hard and clearly fighting to avoid saluting as Thursday came down the path from the front door. “There’s been a message for you – body found in the river. Might be another one, sir,” he said, voice dropping conspiratorially.

“Where’s this?” asked Thursday sharply; Morse hurried to shut the door and join them. 

“Just south of Magdalen College, sir, by the Botanic Garden.”

“Alright. Morse?” 

Morse was already stepping into the Jaguar, starting the engine. Thursday joined him, and they were off. “What if it’s him, sir? Turnbridge?” asked Morse, staring out the window, jaw tight.

“Won’t know until we see. Best not to start guessing ‘til we know. Could just be some fool off the bridge, although May Day’s come and gone.”

The car roared through the sleepy town, scattering students like hens before its long dark bonnet.

  
***

They parked on the Cowley side of the bridge; as they ran over it they could see the small congregation of men and women at the scene of crime. Thursday hurried down to the river, the breeze batting at the hem of his cloak; Morse followed afterwards more slowly and with a long face.

The grass at the riverside was lush and green in the bright sunshine, a few tall poplars standing along the bank, their bark white as apple blossom against the dark background of the river. Their thick clumps of emerald leaves were rustling in the breeze; the place smelt of leaf mould and clean water. And, just at the moment, of cigarette smoke.

The investigative team in all its auspices had descended: the constabulary, the hospital folk, the Spellbinders. They chattered away like a cackle of hyenas as they wrote notes, took photographs and smoked cigarettes. Jakes was already there, standing beside Max DeBryn at the edge of the crowd, waiting for the lawmen to finish their note-taking. 

“DeBryn,” greeted Thursday, coming to stop beside him. He looked down at the man, and then behind him to find Morse slowly edging up. The younger man slipped through the crowd to stand beside the body and twitch his eyes downwards. A moment later he slipped back to stand with the other Spellbinders.

“It’s not him. Turnbridge. I don’t know who that is,” he said, relief evident in his voice.

“From his age and appearance, I would surmise a student,” suggested DeBryn, “Although I’m sure the constables will provide that information soon enough.”

“Or you,” said Thursday; DeBryn gave a little bow.

“I’ve learned to wait my turn. People rarely seem eager to hear what a corpse has to say until they’ve already made their minds up about it. The dead knowing more than the living rarely suits,” said the necromancer, wryly. 

The form at the centre of the attention was a wizened, shrivelled thing, skin flapping loose and bones sunken like damp papier mâché. Its clothes hung loose about its body, shoes and hat missing. 

Slowly the chatter died away, one by one conversations falling into silence, and the gathered men looked to the Spellbinders and their necromancer, standing off to one side. DeBryn hurried forward as the others backed away, a little wooden case in hand. 

He knelt beside the body and set his case down, opening it with a touch. The lid raised itself and showed the interior to be packed with small glass phials and screws of paper. Affixed by silken cords to the underside of the box’s lid was a shallow bowl and a short, narrow brush. 

Without hesitation, DeBryn retrieved two phials while unpacking the bowl and brush and setting them down on an even patch of grass beside the corpse. One of the phials contained a dark, fine powder with a multi-hued sheen, as if of crushed beetle carapaces. He poured half of it into the bowl, then unstopped the second phial. Inside was a clear liquid; its putrid reek warned that it wasn’t water. He mixed this with the powder in the bowl, and where black powder and clear liquid met a viscous red fluid was born. It was slightly lighter in colour than blood, and glinted strangely.

DeBryn paused to open the dead man’s shirt, revealing the sunken chest below. He dipped the brush in the red liquid, and with short quick strokes described a circle from twisted runes on the skin above the breastbone. In the centre, he set a small, perfect acorn, its sheen showing it had been well preserved since the autumn.

The necromancer sat back and closed his eyes. As the silent crowd watched, the acorn on the body’s chest began twitching. There was an almost inaudible crackle, and the nut’s husk broke open to reveal a tender shoot stretching upwards. 

DeBryn sat, still and silent, as the little shoot climbed. He was hardly breathing, face grave and pale with beads of sweat beginning to gather. The shoot grew higher and higher, leaves unfolding at its tip. And then, without warning, DeBryn’s eyes flashed open. His hand flew out and snapped the top off the shoot.

There was a long, slow sigh, like the wind blowing through an empty church. The seedling shrivelled up and died, its form brown and withered. And DeBryn wiped a hand across his brow, standing a little shakily. He turned to Thursday, face bleak.

“I don’t know if it’s good news or not, but this man wasn’t killed by Starving Tom.


	4. Investigation

“Not Starving Tom,” repeated Thursday sharply, while a whisper scurried through the gathered crowd. Their shadows were just edging out from under the soles of their boots, the sun passing directly overhead. 

“No.” DeBryn dusted his hands and glanced down at the corpse. “Frankly, if there weren’t such a panic about him you’d most likely have recognized this for what it is. After all, Starving Tom rarely kills his victims; he leaves that nice task to you.”

“A ghoul,” said Thursday slowly, looking at the desiccated corpse. His eyes flashed to DeBryn, who nodded. 

“It got him yesterday evening, probably just as the sun was setting. Prime hunting.” He bent down to collect his box and bowl, pouring out the contents of the latter onto the ground. Where it landed the grass shrivelled and died as if scorched by oil of vitriol.

“Just what we needed,” sighed Thursday. “Alright. Jakes and Morse – you follow this up.” 

Morse stepped forward, mouth set in a sharp frown. “But sir – Professor Turnbridge –”

Thursday turned dark eyes on his apprentice. “I’ll deal with sorting that mess out. Ghouls take victims every night – I want this stopped now.”

“Yes, sir,” said Jakes crisply; beside him Morse held silent but nodded once reluctantly.

“Good. You can drop me back at the Keep.”

Jakes turned in the direction of the car, cloak flaring about his ankles; Morse stayed where he was, his long narrow form still as a standing stone. “I’d like to look around a bit more,” he said, eyes on Thursday. Thursday gave him a hard look before assenting. 

“Very well. But mind you check in before you act.” 

Morse nodded. Thursday and Jakes headed up the gentle slope towards the street, following the path that had been beaten into the grass by the small crowd. At their departure the rest of the audience began packing up as well, mortuary men coming in to take the body away. Morse stepped over to stand at DeBryn’s shoulder.

“DeBryn?”

The necromancer raised his eyebrows. “Morse.”

“Is there anything you can tell me about the dead man? Who he was, what he was doing here?”

“His name was Bryan Cummings; he was a student, and an artist. He was scouting locations for a painting when he met the ghoul,” said DeBryn, shutting his box and running his fingers along the top. There was a quiet click from inside, the spring of the lock. DeBryn stepped over towards the path, pausing to wait for Morse’s reply.

Morse’s eyes tightened against the sun as he turned to follow the necromancer. “Do you know what college?” 

DeBryn shook his head. “Afraid not. It was not a lengthy conversation.”

“It would be much more convenient if you could have your interviews aloud,” said Morse, rather fussily. 

“For you and the courts both,” answered DeBryn with a wry smile. “And yet, such things remain beyond us. Anything else?” 

Morse shook his head, a soft smile at his lips, and DeBryn nodded. “Right then. Try not to turn up another one for a few days at least, this time?”

Morse didn’t answer, and the other began his slow trudge up to the road. 

By now he was alone, the body removed and its retinue dispersed. Above him a harrier glided by, its pale eyes searching for prey. Morse watched its flight before turning back to the river. And beyond it, the Botanic Garden.

  
***

The Garden was founded in the 1600s for alchemical and medical purposes, being then the favoured harvesting ground for the University’s wealth of alchemists and apothecaries. As the centuries passed and alchemy was transmuted into a science of the mechanical and animate works, the Garden passed solely into the hands of the apothecaries. With the foundation of the Empire, preparations from around the globe became available, and local cultivation diminished. But even now the Garden remained, slowly devolving into a beauty spot and museum of indigenous plants rather than an active harvesting plot. 

The hours were printed on a sign by the door: 9 to 5, or by special admission for members. It still being the middle of the day, Morse paid the tuppence admission and stepped in, heading through the grounds in the direction of the river. 

The gardens were lush and verdant, flowers blooming in a medley of colours and leafy plants stretching their green leaves happily towards the sun. He walked along the gravel paths past beds and manicured grass lawns and towering trees, until he reached the glasshouses and beyond them the river.

From here he was able to see the sloping lawn where the body had lain; to the left was Magdalen bridge and the tower. 

The glasshouses had been washed recently, their glass sparkling in the sunshine and giving a clear glimpse to the tropical abundance within. The view from the opposite bank might make an interesting picture, and certainly a cheaper one than having to return for regular sittings within the Garden itself. 

Morse turned back and wandered through the Garden until he found a groundskeeper, a young lad in shirtsleeves and tired flannel bags. At the sight of Morse coming down the lane in his dark cloak he froze, staring. 

“Worked here long?” asked Morse, in a genial tone. The lad unfroze, setting down the wheelbarrow he had been pushing and standing upwards towards attention. 

“Two summers.”

Morse nodded. “Ever met a man called Bryan Cummings? A student – painter.”

The gardener shook his head. “We get enough painters, sir. I don’t stop to chat with ‘em.”

“Any recently? Young, local?”

“No, sir. Not in the past day or two.”

“Alright. Is there anyone about who might know more?”

The lad thought about it for a moment, wiping his hand across his nose and leaving a dark smudge behind. “You might ask Mrs Stepney. She’ll be in the Lily House.” He pointed. 

Morse nodded. “Thanks.” He followed the direction pointed out to him, one of the nearer glasshouses. 

The fug hit him as soon as he opened the door, the warmth solid as a wall. Morse pushed his cloak back over his shoulders and stepped in, closing the door behind him. 

The centre of the large space was a massive raised pond, its sides old stone. In the water were enormous lily pads, some as small as saucers, others as large as the circle of his arms. Around the edges of the glasshouse grew tall tropical plants – sugarcane sprouting up like thick clumps of sabers, banana trees with smooth trunks and drooping leaves the size of albatross wings, bamboo with delicate stalks shooting up towards the ceiling. There was a rich, pleasant smell; Morse inhaled deeply.

There were several other visitors in the glasshouse; most turned to watch as he entered, primrose silk framing his narrow form in shivering splendor as he moved. In the back corner of the building he could see a woman on her knees beside a bed of cardamom, her hands deep in the earth at its roots. 

“Pardon me?” he stopped beside her, reaching out to run his fingers over the long leaves and feel their slightly brittle texture. 

“Yes?” She looked up, caught sight of his dress, and straightened. “Can I help you?” she asked, brushing the dirt from her hands.

Morse withdrew his hand, stooping slightly to speak with her. “I was wondering if you know a young man called Bryan Cummings – a painter. He paints around here, I believe.”

“Aye, I know Bryan. Leastways we’ve met a few times. He painted the Black Pine in the spring; his style was a bit fanciful for me, but it was good work. Why do you ask?”

“Do you know his college?” asked Morse, ignoring her question. She frowned, rubbing at her earth-stained fingernails. 

“Trinity, I believe.”

Morse straightened. “Thank you.”

  
***

It was his cloak which passed him by the porter’s lodge and onto Cumming’s staircase. The door to the room was locked, but that presented no problem; a turn of the hand and it slid open.

Inside was a typical undergrad’s room: narrow dimensions and scattered clothes and books covering most surfaces. What space wasn’t taken up with furniture had been filled with canvases, the rectangular frames lying propped up against one another. There was a smell of oil paint and turpentine; on the windowsill a glass jar sat filled with clear liquid, brushes stuck in it bristles down. 

Morse stepped in, the floorboards creaking under his weight. He went first to the collection of books and papers on the desk: treatises and essays on philosophy. The marks scrawled on the final page of the papers were poor: clearly academe had taking a back seat to art.

The paintings were of landscapes around Oxford. There was quite a good one of the Quad as seen from Cumming’s window, and another of the Black Pine in the Botanic Garden – all long spiderous limbs and shadowy foliage creating an impression of creeping menace. But it was clear Cummings’ talent had rested in the depiction of water scenes. There was one of the Lily House, the water a still mossy green and covered in delicate pink flowers like floating lanterns, each shining with soft perfection. There were numerous scenes of the river, some with punts and colourful boats but most empty, finely-done depictions of natural beauty. There was even a clever picture of Magdalen tower reflected in a long puddle. 

“Hello?”

Morse startled and turned; there was a young man standing in the doorframe in academic robes peering in. “I was looking for Cummings,” he said, trailing off as he took in Morse’s cloak. “Has something happened?”

Morse looked him over: a plump, pleasant face still slightly spotty, a flash of blond hair and dull brown eyes. 

“We were to get together for some swotting last night, only he didn’t show. And you fellows don’t turn out for tardy undergrads, not unless…”

“He was found dead yesterday evening,” said Morse, in a quiet tone. “I expect the constabulary will be around with the news.”

“Dead?” The young man stared, eyes wide in his pasty face. “My God.”

“You were friends?”

“I suppose so – so far as Cummings had friends. He spent most of his time out with his blasted paints, and his schools were suffering for it. Thus the swotting. Only when he didn’t show we all just assumed he was at it again.” The young man shook his head, face awash with anger and guilt. “Hell.”

“There was nothing you could have done, Mr …?”

“Pinch-Beckett. Douglas. What was it that happened?” he asked, in a shaken tone.

“We’re still looking into it,” said Morse promptly. News of night-walkers roaming free was apt to cause panic; it fell to Bright to release it. “Was there anyone he was in the habit of painting with?”

“Not that I know of. Rather a solitary sport, isn’t it?”

Morse’s lips twitched in acknowledgement. “I suppose so.” He glanced around again at the scattered paintings. “Is there anyone else I could talk to? Someone who might know more about his habits?”

Pinch-Beckett gave a lopsided frown. “There’s always his tutor, but on the whole I think not. Painting… it was an escape for him, something private. He was proud enough of the outcome, but he didn’t care to share the process.”

“I see. Thank you.”

Pinch-Beckett gave him a polite, joyless smile and passed on. Morse stood in the centre of the room for a few minutes more, then slipped quietly away locking the door behind him.

  
***

The warmth of the Keep was of a different kind from the tropical humidity of the Lily House. Dry and pine-scented, it felt bare and primitive, the heat of a stone hearth and the crackle of Prometheus’ flames. Morse shed his cloak as he entered, hanging it on the stand tucked away behind his desk, which Jakes’ already adorned. It look cheap and worn in the company of its fellow.

Morse had only just sat down at his desk, chair tottering unsteadily beneath him, when Jakes looked over. “’Bout time,” he said laconically, eyes lazy and heavy-lidded. He was smoking the end of a cigarette, ash approaching his fingertips. 

“The dead man was called Cummings. He was a student at Trinity; a painter,” said Morse, looking through the papers on his desk for his pen.

“Been chatting up DeBryn, have you? Meanwhile, in the world of real Spellbinding, I’ve been onto the Watchers.”

Morse looked up, pen in hand, eyebrows rising. 

“They said there’ll be another one found,” relayed Jakes calmly.

“What? Where?” Morse slammed upright, half-rising to his feet.

Jakes shrugged, grinding out his cigarette in the ash tray on his desk. “Don’t know. It’s not us as finds him.”

“Does that matter?” asked Morse, angrily. 

“They see what they see, Pagan. No point questioning it.”

Morse shot him an irritated glare. “Isn’t that why we _should_ question it?” 

Jakes leaned back in his chair, drawing his hands up through his hair and crossing them behind his head. “You fancy you could do better?”

“I think we would do better to trust intelligence, not mysticism.” He stood, pulling his cloak back down and stepping around his desk. Jakes’ chair came back to hit the floor with a thump.

“Where’re you going? Call could come in any time.”

Morse glanced back over his shoulder. “Not until after sunset. Not unless we stop it.”

  
***

The Keep housed both Spellbinders and the Oxford city branch of the constabulary; internally the old stone building was divided into two halves with narrow open courtyard in the middle connected at the north and south sides. Morse was hurrying down out the main shared entrance when he heard a voice calling him.

“Sir! Sir?”

He turned to find the constable from earlier that morning chasing towards him. He had a piece of paper in his hand. “Just come in off the telegraph, sir. They’ve found another one.”

For a moment Morse stood standing, poleaxed, in the cavernous entranceway. Then: “What d’you mean another one? It’s still light outside.” He looked out the door for confirmation; sun was lying bright and cheerful on the pavement beyond the massive oak door.

“Body’s older, sir. It was hidden in some underbrush in Christ Church’s deer park. They want you over there as soon as possible.”

“I – yes – right.” Morse turned, altering course towards the stables. “Fetch Jakes down, would you?”

“Yes, sir.”

He went out into the yard and entered the Jaguar, taking a moment to enjoy its warmth on the sunny day. Then Jakes was stalking out into the yard, meeting his eye as he opened the door. “Ready to listen to your elders and betters then, are you?” he asked sardonically as he got in.

Morse started the engine and pulled out in silence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Black Pine was particularly beloved by Tolkien, and served as the inspiration for the Ents. It was cut down in 2014.


	5. Sunset

The air was thick with the stomach-turning reek of putrefaction. It lay about the rhododendron bush in an oily cloud, hinting at the horrors which lay beneath. 

“They rot quickly,” DeBryn was saying to the assembled group as the Spellbinders arrived. “She would be nothing more than bones in a few days.” He looked up at Jakes and Morse, gliding across the lawn like a pair of rooks, and frowned. “This isn’t what I had in mind when I said I hoped not to see you too soon,” he told them as they pulled up.

The rhododendron hiding its ugly secret was one of many in a line beside the gravel walk, a particularly large example laden down with blossom. The representatives from the hospital, the constabulary, and the home office, were standing on the springy grass a few feet back from the waxy-leaved shrub. 

“When did she die?” asked Jakes, ignoring DeBryn’s comment, his nose already wrinkled against the smell. Beside him Morse stood pale and silent, head framed by a brazier of flowers; he looked queasy. DeBryn turned back to the root of the shrub, and the body beneath.

“Day before yesterday, like as not. There’s not much point asking her; time means little when you’re dead.” The necromancer had his cherrywood box in his hands, but made no move to open in.

“The ghoul?”

DeBryn shrugged. “The presentation is classic. Often first – or earlier – victims are found after subsequent ones. Sometimes not at all, owing to the hastened decomposition.”

The corpse lay buzzing with insect life, skin the colour of spoilt milk already wearing away to show pale hints of bone below. Over the rotting flesh was a now-stained blouse and skirt, a river of chestnut hair untouched by the mortification around it. It provided a grotesque counterpoint to the watermelon-red beauty of the rhododendron’s abundant flowers.

“The constables haven’t identified her yet,” said DeBryn eventually, in a low tone. In the distance several students had stopped to watch, their short gowns identifying them as undergrads. They stood at both ends of the walk, gathered in small groups with their heads bent together as they whispered.

“Probably walking out with one of the students,” commented Jakes, looking over at the curious onlookers with disdain in his eye.

“Or she was one,” countered Morse. “Lady Matilda’s is just over the way.”

Jakes turned the look of disdain on him, but made no answer.

“There is a simple enough way of finding out,” broke in DeBryn, like a trainer stepping between two bare-knuckled fighters. “If I might have my say?”

Jakes waved him on, Morse stepping back to give the necromancer a clean line to the corpse. He already had his box open, mixing his preparation as soon as he dropped to his knees. He painted it delicately on the exposed, withered forearm, and this time in the centre placed a glossy chestnut. As he closed his eyes the outer shell cracked open and a questing seedling broke forth, edging upwards towards the sun. DeBryn’s face grew grimmer as it climbed higher, until finally he blinked and reached out to snap it off. The green seedling yellowed as it curled down into death, its fresh leaves shrivelling.

DeBryn turned slowly, looking up without standing. “Victoria Medlar. Student at Lady Matilda’s. She was out on a lover’s rendezvous.” His face clouded over and he pressed a hand to his eyes, rubbing tiredly. 

“Her lover’s name?” asked Morse.

“Derek Armitage,” answered the necromancer simply. He sounded weary, and the arm raised to his face was trembling.

“We’ve overtaxed you,” Morse looked down in concern, gannet-blue eyes shadowed.

“ _Death_ taxes me, Morse. You are merely its harbinger.” He stood, accepting Morse’s arm. His shoulders were curved inwards with the sapped curl of a parched leaf. “I would appreciate it if you could prevent the taking of further victims. I’m sure I’m not alone in this.” He sighed slowly as he stretched his back, spine cracking audibly. A little of the shadow of weariness left him, and he took an easier breath.

“We’ll do our best,” answered Morse. He looked to Jakes, who stared back and shuffled his hands into his pockets. His face was drily unamused. 

“Let me guess,” he drawled, “You want to visit Lady Matilda’s.”

“Don’t you want to know what became of this Armitage? Why she wasn’t reported missing or dead?” asked Morse, gesturing to the fetid corpse.

“Oddly, no. I want to know where the ghoul is going to strike next, and that’s the Watchers’ job.”

“We’ve only a few hours left till sundown. What if they don’t know?”

Jakes stared back and said nothing, dark eyes flashing. Morse lifted his chin defiantly. “Then I’ll go. Someone needs to speak to Armitage, find out their patterns, where they walk.”

“Yes, the Constabulary.”

“There isn’t time for that. We could solve this: here, now. Isn’t that our job? ‘Seek the night, purge its shadow’?” he quoted, angrily.

Jakes frowned, but it was a reluctant, uncertain effort.

“I’ll be back before dusk,” said Morse, and set off across the park.

  
***

Derek Armitage was known to the porters at Lady Matilda’s, not as Victoria Medlar’s beau but as the son of her tutor. He was, by their account, a dark horse.

“But where can I find him?” pushed Morse again, after hearing of the lad’s sudden return from Cambridge, a homecoming steeped in ignominy. 

“Don’t know, sir. This time o’ the day you might try his pub – that’s the Hound and Hart, sir,” provided the red-faced porter, face screwed up with the effort of thought.

Morse thanked him and passed out from under the stone arch with its twin turrets stretching skywards and onto the pavement in the direction of the pub. 

The Hound and Hart was one poky old room with a deeply scarred counter and much-burnished brass footrest up against one wall and bordered on the far side by a herd of rickety tables crammed into the narrow space. The walls were whitewashed but yellowing with nicotine, plaster beneath cracking, and there was a smell of sour beer and cigarette smoke. Although there were only two or three patrons the air was blue with a smoky haze; Morse’s eyes narrowed as he stepped in.

The landlord was a bear of a man with mutton-chop sideburns and a corpulent face. He frowned at the sight of Morse, great fatty slabs shifting in his cheeks, and looked as though he might spit.

“I’m looking for Derek Armitage,” announced Morse, approaching the bar. The room had gone silent, the patrons eyeing him from across the room, their drinks forgotten on the flimsy tables.

“Aye? Why’s that, then?” the man set his fists down on the bar; they were like a pair of mallets. Morse stared straight back, shoulders unfolding as he straightened. His cloak fell away from his shoulders, the light playing over the light silk like sunlight on water. 

“That’s my business. Is he here?”

The landlord stared back for a moment and then folded, looking to the right. “That’s him. In the cravat,” he let out in a resentful tone, pointing with his massive chin towards one corner of the room. Morse stepped over without bothering to thank the man.

“Mr Armitage?” 

Armitage was a young man of dapper appearance, his hair close-cropped and sleek, his clothes well-cut. He sneered at the sound of his name, revealing a golden canine. “What d’you want? I’ve no business with you.” He was standing by his table, having risen during Morse’s conversation with the barkeep. 

“It concerns Miss Victoria Medlar.”

At the name the man reddened, but his eyes grew tight and angry and his fists closed at his side. “Christ,” he spat, “friend of hers, are you? She sent you to tell me off? I don’t need some toothless dog barking at me; I know where I’m not wanted.”

Morse frowned. “She broke off her ties with you?”

“Gave me an earful. So I did what she wanted, and disappeared. Plenty of fish,” he added, stiffly.

“This was the day before yesterday? Where?”

Armitage gave him an irritated look, fists twitching higher. “What does it matter to you?”

Morse took a slow breath. “It matters because shortly after you left, I believe, she was killed.”

The blood drained from Armitage’s face nearly as fast as if his throat had been cut. It transformed him from a callow, brash young man to a wide-eyed rabbit of a creature, shaking and twitching. He swallowed, Adam’s apple bobbing above his cravat. “ _Killed_? She’s dead?”

“That’s right.” Morse folded his arms across his chest. And then unfolded them rapidly and reached out as Armitage’s knees gave out under him. Morse pushed him hurriedly towards a chair, arm clasped tight about his elbow. Armitage looked wretched and sick, full of a desperate kind of horror. “Dead? She can’t be dead – I – ” he looked up pleadingly at Morse, who stared back helplessly.

“I’m sorry.”

“Why – _how_?”

Morse sat down beside him to speak in a low voice. “She was taken by a ghoul. It must have come across her when she was alone.”

“Oh God. Oh my God.” He raised a shaking hand to his face, ran it almost absently down over his cheek, fingers catching in the eye socket and distending the skin there. 

“Can you tell me what happened?” Morse sat waiting patiently, hands folded on the battered table. Armitage was taking deep, choked breaths, but after a moment he dropped his hand and began.

“We were to meet at Magdalen Bridge at seven, to walk down to the music hall just north of Cowley. At least, that’s what I believed. But once we got started she let out how she’d learned – she’d learned I’d been sent down not for a misplaced grudge on the part of the college with my father, as I’d told her, but for a matter of misconduct – and that she wanted no more to do with me. We argued but she was firm – she always held her morals closer than gold. I should’ve known from the start it couldn’t work, that it was only a matter of time before she found out.” 

“So you left her – where?”

He dropped his head into his hands. “Just downriver from the Botanic Gardens. The sun was setting behind the glasshouses. “I thought… hoped… perhaps in a couple of days she might…” he gave a low, sick groan and shook his head. “If I hadn’t left – if I’d taken her home –”

“You would be dead too,” finished Morse, softly. Armitage’s fingers tightened in his hair. 

“I wish to God I was.”

Morse waited a moment in awkward silence and then stood, birch-pale and straight. “I’m sorry,” he said, and slipped past Armitage and out of the pub’s close darkness.

  
***

He walked back over Magdalen bridge, shallow water trickling by below, and paused to look downriver at the Garden on the right side and the stretch of grass to the left where Cummings had met his end. There was a gentle breeze brushing past his ears; it set the poplar leaves shivering alongside the bank.

Some ways to the south was the deer park – Victoria Medlar must have run that far before it caught her, having crossed the shallow river in its pursuit. Ghouls weren’t fast, but they didn’t tire. To the north of the park was the verge; Cummings must have been distracted – perhaps watching the play of light as the sun set over the glasshouses. An easier target.

Morse leant on the bridge’s stone side, watching the sun lowering towards the western horizon. It would be setting in less than an hour.

  
***

“We’ve no further information from Chard,” said Jakes repressively, taking the cigarette from his mouth and scowling. The window in Thursday’s room was open, letting in a breeze still warm with the late afternoon sun. “They’re waiting – if we leave and they See something –”

“And if we stay and they don’t, someone else will die. It’s getting late – McNutt will be in soon. They can send him out if we’re wrong.” Morse, standing at the other corner of Thursday’s desk, argued back. “The bank by the Garden – that’s the point of commonality. That’s where he’ll strike.” He turned to Thursday, eyes bright with expectation like those of a falcon waiting to be released from the gauntlet. 

Thursday glanced out the windows behind him; the sun was drawing down to nestle above the horizon in shades of reddish-orange. He turned back, raising his pipe to his lips thoughtfully. Smoke rose in a stream, the bowl glowing cherry red. Then, with a sigh that released a thick cloud, he nodded. “Alright. We’ll try the riverside. Chard can send for us if anything new comes in.”

Relief lightened Morse’s face and he stood a little straighter, some of the anxiousness fading. 

“Did you have a plan?” asked Thursday, setting the pipe down on the edge of the flattened brass tray that acted as holder and ashtray.

“Well, sir,” began Morse, consideringly, “it’ll need someone to act as bait.”

“I’ll start signing up volunteers, shall I?” asked Jakes drily. 

“No need for that,” said Thursday, ignoring the tone. “I’m the only one with a bent for close-range action. It will be me.”

Jakes eyes widened; Morse shifted from one side to the other, expression uncertain and unhappy. But neither protested.

“Alright then. There’s not much cover on the bank; you’ll need to mind you keep concealed.”

“I can take care of that,” said Jakes; Thursday nodded. 

“Good. Morse, it’s on you to cage it.”

Morse nodded once, firmly. “I will.”

  
***

The crickets were chirping in the undergrowth, a pair of swans drifting lazily downstream from the bridge providing a flare of white against the muddy water. The sun was playing on the angled roofs of the glasshouses, turning them an iridescent gold. Thursday sat alone on the riverbank smoking his pipe, cloak folded about him like a raven’s wings. There was neither sight nor sound of the two apprentices, but shadows trailed from behind the copse of poplars like black silken capes.

The sun fell gently towards the horizon, silhouetting the spires of Oxford in a brilliant fiery glow. The shadows grew longer still, and then as the sun dipped below the curvature of the Earth, they mixed and blended into undistinguishing dusk.

Slowly, one by one the insects faltered and fell silent. Softly from further downstream came the gritty sound of something heavy being dragged through the dirt. 

Although the ghoul had never been human it bore a horrific resemblance to a rotting corpse, its flesh grey and eaten away to reveal the dull sheen of bone. Its spine was curved so that the vertebrae stood out like teeth on a sawblade, and its fingers were long and grasping as sickles. Its face was a sunken, rotting mess, as though its skull had partially collapsed and sucked the skin inwards until it tore. The cloudy, roving eyes gave it a look of mad, unquenchable hunger.

It was limping as it came, dragging one twisted leg behind it. There was a smell of mouldy meat, of maggots and spilt blood on a hot afternoon. 

Behind it, beside the papery trunk of a poplar Morse stumbled free from the velvety shadows to stand on his own. He slid his arms free from his cloak and stood stilly with his hands upraised, framed by buttery silk. 

At first, as the ghoul limped its way closer to Thursday’s defenseless back, it seemed that nothing was happening. But as the twilight deepened around them gossamer-thin threads of light unfurled into being, coming into the world delicate as spider silk and just as silent. First one then two, then a handful, trailing outwards from Morse’s fingers like puppet-strings and floating through the dusk towards the ghoul. As the seconds ticked by a fragile tapestry of light came forth, weaving itself into being with twitches of Morse’s fingers. In the gloom it was soft as a firefly’s glow, but where the threads met they wove together, growing thicker, stronger. Their light grew more steady, more radiant, until they shone bright as a bonfire and did not break. 

They wove themselves about the ghoul in a tight net, drawing in around it as it gave a distraught wail and lunged forward. But the newly-forming trap curled around with the soft angles of a rippling flag, encircling it in a warm glow. The threads of light knit themselves closer into a fine mesh, drawing tighter and tighter around the ghoul until they cocooned it, holding it still and helpless as it tried to writhe. 

Jakes stepped neatly out of the shadow to Morse’s right, striding forward even as the nails of his right hand grew blue and his fingers frosty. Shimmering tips of ice were hardening like pointed diamonds as he came up behind the ensnared creature; he reached out casually and the ice spread from his fingertips into its decay-ridden body. It stiffened as the frost set, and fell eerily silent.

“You can let it go,” said Thursday, standing. The web of light disintegrated like ancient cloth, coming to pieces and fading into nothingness. In the dusk, the ghoul’s form toppled and lay still on the ground. “Well done.” Although his words seemed directed at both, it was Morse Thursday looked to. “Jakes, you can hold it for now; Mr Bright can come out tomorrow and cremate the thing.”

Jakes obligingly waved his hand and a dark cover spread over the ghoul’s form; it darkened as the shadow spread until finally it disappeared once completely enveloped. 

“Good. Let’s get ourselves home then,” said Thursday, knocking the contents of his pipe out against his boot and tucking it away in its soft leather pouch. He lead the way up to the verge and the road beyond where the Jaguar waited. Morse slipped by, claiming the wheel, and the other two took their places while the engine roared to life.

Morse put the car in gear and checked the traffic to the side. As he did so a flare of red in the wing mirror caught his eye and he glanced towards it to see it overtaken by churning shadow, two fiery points staring wildly. Morse snapped his head around but there was nothing on the grass behind them, no trace of the monstrous form in the mirror. No trace of Starving Tom.

“Morse?” asked Thursday from his side, looking at him.

“I thought – it’s nothing,” muttered Morse, raising a hand to the makeshift circle of dried stalks hanging about his neck. He looked in the mirror again – nothing. Shoulders high and hands white-knuckled on the wheel, he pulled out onto the road and turned the Jaguar’s nose towards the Keep.


	6. Darkness Falls

“Is it really alright to simply leave it there?” The curtain of night had fallen, the first stars shining faintly in the dark depths. The roads were emptying as evening descended, the remaining traffic mostly straight-backed cyclists and cloaked pedestrians hurrying towards the warm safety of home. Morse had switched on the headlamps; they painted long creamy lines over the cobbled roads. He looked across at Thursday as he spoke; behind in the back seat Jakes gave an impatient snort.

“Course it is. It’s frozen through; ‘sides, Nightwalkers can’t open shadow webs.”

“Someone else could,” said Morse, frowning.

“No Spellbinder’d be that daft.”

“Not all shadow weavers are Spellbinders. Turnbridge wasn’t.” Morse was staring darkly out at the road, half-hunched over the wheel like a spinner at his craft.

“And you reckon he’s going to turn up just in order to cut our ghoul loose? Not a chance; a man would have to be a lunatic to do it – and looneys can’t weave.”

There was a long stretch of silence, Jag purring contentedly as Morse shifted gears.

“They can’t, can they,” said Thursday, thoughtfully.

Morse glanced at him. “Sir?”

Thursday looked back over his shoulder. “When you were in Turnbridge’s house, where did you check?”

Jakes shifted forward, the black of his cloak whispering over red leather. “The front hall and the sitting room, sir,” he answered. “Why?”

“What if he hid himself, same as Morse. Somewhere you didn’t check – upstairs, say. We’d be none the wiser.”

“Why stay hidden now? Why not cut himself loose – cut Morse loose too, after the thing’d gone?” asked Jakes.

“What if he couldn’t? If Starving Tom’d already caught him, managed to turn him. He’d have minutes – maybe seconds – before he began losing control of himself. Perhaps he trapped himself, knowing he wouldn’t be able to shred the web once he’d turned. Morse –”

Morse was already turning the car around.

  
***

Light was falling softly from two porch sconces when they arrived at Turnbridge’s cottage. Standing by the door was a tall constable in his dark tunic and helmet, silver whistle and truncheon at his belt. He recognized the Spellbinders, or at least their cloaks, and stepped away from the door. “It’s open; we haven’t found the key,” he announced as they passed by.

Morse pulled the door to behind them as Jakes struck a match and by its light lit the gas lamps. Thursday was already mounting the stairs as they flared to life, Morse close behind him. A light the size and shape of a pinecone gleamed in the apprentice’s hand, glowing brighter when they reached the darkened landing. Jakes ran up lightly behind them, leather boots soft on the thick carpet.

Morse led the way into the guest room first, long threads of light rising like an anemone’s tentacles from his palm and casting a thin, roving light over the blue room. He glanced at Jakes, who after raking the emptiness with sharp eyes shook his head.

They passed out of the spare bedroom and into the master, Morse stepping around the foot of the bed towards the window. Jakes caught his shoulder, pulling him back.

“Stop.” He was staring at the floor just in front of Morse’s feet, expression tight and sickened.

Morse looked from him to the empty space above carpet, then stepped back. “Is he –”

“It’s not him anymore,” said Jakes, staring into the unseen shadow, its secrets visible only to him. His lip curled upwards, exposing his teeth in a feral grimace. Morse fell back further, the light in his hand fading suddenly.

“Oi,” snapped Jakes, turning, his eyes flashing like a cat’s in the low light. Morse caught himself, stilling. A moment later the light brightened, the glowing skein in his hand intensifying before sending out more shooting threads, rising to wave like seedlings in the afternoon breeze.

Thursday stepped past, dropping a reassuring hand briefly on Morse’s shoulder before lighting the lamps and the candle resting on the bedside table. Gaslight warming the room, Morse let the twist of brightness in his palm fade again until it disappeared into nothingness. 

“Sir?” Jakes was still standing at the foot of the bed, a lingering trace of distaste on his face.

“Let him out. I’ll take care of it.”

Jakes, eyes on Thursday, leant down and grasped seemingly empty air. At Thursday’s nod he pulled his hands apart and the shadow tore, rending silently and disintegrating as it came to pieces.

The twisted, pinned form of Dr Turnbridge appeared – skin pale and wasted, hanging from his protruding skeleton. It was as if he had starved into the shadow of death in a day. His eyes were round and staring, bulging from the sockets like a rat; his mouth was wet with saliva, full of gaps and rotten teeth. 

Behind them Morse made a soft sound of distress.

Thursday reached forward, ice clinging to his fingertips, and caught hold of Turnbridge’s shoulder – of the shoulder of the thing which once had been Turnbridge. The ice poured into it, slick as oil, and froze the nightwalker solid. The last of the shadow shredded, and the corpse toppled to the ground, stone stiff.

Thursday sighed, brushing the last of the frost from his fingertips. He turned to find Morse staring in abject horror at the ruin of the man lying on the carpet.

“Morse…”

Morse jerked his head up, jaw working. “He was there. This whole time. While I searched the room. I was _right here_ and –”

“That’s enough of that,” cut in Thursday, moving over to stand between him and Turnbridge, blocking his view. “You’ll do no good to anyone getting morose. Nothing you could have done for him.”

Morse swallowed roughly, looking away. “It’s my fault. I’m the one who led it here.”

“You can’t know that – it’s been targeting those familiar with its ways, and Turnbridge was one of them. He might have been next on its list.”

Morse ran a shaky hand over his mouth, making no answer. 

“Come on,” said Thursday, glancing over his shoulder at Jakes. He stopped to blow out the candle, while Jakes turned out the lights. They stood in the dark for a moment before slow golden threads formed almost reluctantly, lighting the way down the stairs.

“I think you’d best stay the night at the Keep,” said Thursday as they reached the hall, glancing back upstairs. Morse looked up at him, eyes wide and lost, and didn’t answer.

  
***

The thick stone walls of the Keep radiated with a velvety coldness, filling the long halls with the smell of cellars after nightfall. Gas lamps flickered from atop wall-mounted brackets, and the mullioned windows let in thin strips of moonlight. There was a sense of solidity and safety but also of emptiness: the corridors were sparse and bare, the Keep shadowed and silent.

Morse trudged up the long curved stair to the Spellbinder’s lair, smelling the deep smokiness of the fire before he reached the landing. He pressed on, stepping over the wooden threshold and into the open space beyond. With the dry weather the sawhorses had been piled away untidily into a corner, taking with them the thick scent of damp wool. Jones and Cartwright were seated at their desks, idly completing reports. McNutt was nowhere to be seen.

“I’ll leave a note for him,” said Thursday, coming in behind Morse and catching sight of his searching gaze. “You go down to the kitchens and get yourself something to eat. There’ll be bread and cheese, at least.”

  
***

Bread and cheese there was, and also early crab-apples and a pot of cold mutton curry. Morse served himself and ate at the long table provided for men on duty, crowded around by empty stools and upended boxes. In the middle of shift change, the room was deserted and he ate his cold meal in silence, tracing over the long scars in the table with his free hand. It had once been an oak tree, strong and towering; now it was nothing but slabs of timber.

Thursday and Jakes were gone when he returned upstairs. Thursday had left the full coal scuttle beside the fireplace, but mercifully hadn’t built up the fire.

Morse spent a few hours catching up on his own reports from the peace of Thursday’s room, before peeling off his boots and making himself as comfortable as possible on the ancient sofa. He pulled his cloak about him and settled down to wait for sleep.

  
***

“Hullo again.” Fred Thursday removed his cloak in a neat twist of black and red as he stepped forward to receive a kiss from his wife, hanging it on its peg when she had finished pecking his cheek. “Something smells good.”

Win Thursday gave him a fond look, eyes velvet-soft, wiping her hands on her apron. “The children are eating out tonight, so I thought we would have chops. There’s potatoes, greens, and some mushrooms from Mr Genner down the way.”

“Trying to poison me again?” teased Thursday, stepping past Win and down the narrow hallway. It was bordered on one side by the dining room and on the other by the stairs, guarded by a white wooden hand rail. The walls were papered in an aging floral wallpaper, a faded bronze and pink pattern of tiny heather and forget-me-nots, decorated with small sepia photographs hanging in their frames. The dark wood of the floor creaked under the heave of his footsteps, the boards beginning to pull up and away from the surface below with old age. 

“You know perfectly well that was just your stomach – the rest of us were fine. Besides it’s ceps this time; nothing like the others. Big impressive things these are.”

He made a sound of appreciation and followed her through to the warmth of the kitchen, settling on the stool in front of the fire while behind him Win opened a bottle of beer and poured the amber liquid out for him. She handed it around to him, resting her hand briefly on his shoulder, light but warm as summer sunshine. “You look tired,” she said, fingers tightening briefly over his arm before slipping away. 

Thursday, staring into the distance, hardened. “Another Wasted Soul. An acquaintance of Morse’s.” He took a deep draught, eyes closed. His face was like carved ivory, old and sharp and lined with care. 

Win pursed her lips as she pushed a lock of hair out of her face, tucking it up behind her ear. The fire was burning hot; her neck and face were flushed with it. “That poor lad. As if he needed more grief.”

“He’ll be fine. We’ll find Starving Tom and end him, before anyone else comes to grief.”

“Course you will. Mind you keep out of the way, now – don’t want you getting burned.” She wrapped a cloth round her hand and pulled the skillet out of the fire, tipping it to spread the juices about before returning it into the iron shelf sitting above the flames. 

Thursday sipped his beer contentedly, lazing like an old dog by the fire, warming his chilled feet.

  
***

It was rare that they had the chance to eat alone, just the two of them. One or both of the children was usually in attendance, or friends of Win’s, or colleagues of Thursday’s. Tonight they ate in a companionable quiet that came from years of closeness. The meal passed quickly, chops moist and vegetables firm and savoury. Thursday ate up his dinner in quick order, putting the food away like an over-worked hound, lapping up his portion with carefree eagerness.

“You ought to’ve brought Morse home with you,” chided Win gently as they finished and she rose to take the plates into the kitchen. Thursday stood to help her clear, gathering up cutlery and empty glasses.

He gave her a fond, long-suffering look. “He’d never have it. Bring risk down on us? He’d sooner cut off his hand.”

“He listens to you,” she returned, turning to meet Thursday’s eye with a smile soft as gossamer; his heart beat more strongly in his chest at the sight of it. 

“Only when it pleases him to. Mostly he listens to no one but himself. He has a way of looking at the world as though he can see what’s not there clear as day – notions like right and wrong and justice – which is fine and good, but it would be a help if occasionally he saw what _was_ there as well.” 

“He’ll learn.” Win took the dishes back into the kitchen, picked up an apron and tied it over her dress before beginning to run the sink and scrub at the plates. “In time, he’ll learn.”

“And I suppose when he does, I’ll –”

The soft tinkling of broken glass came from the hallway, interrupting him. Win froze; beside her Thursday pushed her wordlessly away from the sink towards the back door. With his other hand, he motioned for silence. He strode into the hall, back straight as a fir, hands fisted at his side. 

Standing in the centre of the hall in a twisted mess of shadows, hairy tendrils waving in the gaslight, was Starving Tom. His form danced and rippled like a black sea, moving ceaselessly. His hide grasped hungrily at the light, thousands of tiny tentacles shivering with unquenchable desire to consume all it could – and more. Its eyes blazed like coals, and as they shifted from side to side they left a red streak behind for an instant, burning through the fabric of reality. 

Thursday didn’t freeze, didn’t pause. Didn’t breathe. He stepped forward, flexing his hands as he went, and reached up to grab the nearest bannister of the hand rail. His fingers dug into the wood, feeling it splinter beneath the strength of his grip, his hand imbued with the tensile strength of steel. 

He pulled it away with a kind of simple ease, as if pulling toffee, and with it the railing came free from the wall, splitting neatly as a stamp pulled along the perforated edge. The twisted piece of wood came crashing down like an impossibly long sword, spokes poking out all down its length. He swung it straight into Starving Tom, the creature’s mad glowing eyes rolling as he was smashed sideways into the wall. The impact made a terrific crash, wood smashing and plaster crumbling; dust blossomed up to fill the still air. Thursday dropped the banister and knelt, digging his fingers into the polished wooden floorboards; they cracked and split under his fingers like balsawood and he pulled them up with a heave, ripping up three boards together and snapping them upwards to slam Starving Tom into the roof. 

Rage-weaving was neither exact nor delicate; Thursday’s battalion had left a trail of destruction strewn in their wake as they marched north through the Crimea, tearing up the landscape with the wrecking force of a hurricane. 

He strode forward through the ruin, wood and plaster crunching under his shoes. Starving Tom shook himself like a dog, and Thursday casually ripped the leg off the hall table before skewering it through the mass of shadow. He tumbled back as Thursday raised a hand, ice forming on his fingertips. Thursday took a step forward and Starving Tom drew away further, fiery eyes spitting angry sparks. Before the Spellbinder could reach him he slid out through the shattered window in the front door, form slinking and spiderous, and disappeared immediately into the darkness beyond. 

Behind Thursday there was a muffled whimper and he turned, fearsome expression dropping from his face. Win was standing in the doorway to the kitchen, staring in abject horror at the ruin of the front hallway. 

She had seen him knot pokers, push aside badly-parked carts, and once in London stop a moving lorry to protect a child in the street. But this was another level of destruction, and worse, this was their home. 

“Win…”

She turned watery eyes to him, hands clasped together just below her throat. “Was he here? Is he after you?” she asked. 

“He’s gone now; he won’t be back. The creature is hungry, but he’s no fool. He won’t risk his existence on meals, not when there’s plenty others that come so cheap. He’s gone,” he repeated, stepping forward to pull her into his arms. She sniffled but didn’t cry, pressing her forehead against his shoulder. “It’ll be alright. I’ll put some wood up over the window for now, and we can get the builders in,” he added, looking back at the gaping holes in the floor and the wall; the bare studs were visible, revealed by the smashed surface. 

“Oh Fred. Why is he after you?”

“He reckoned to deal with those who were a threat to him; that was his mistake. He should never have tried it, not with me. Not here.” Thursday tightened his grip on Win, pressing a kiss to the crown of her head. “It’ll be alright. You’ll see.”

She looked up, giving him a watery smile. “I believe you.”


End file.
